Code of the West

by Aaron Latham

  “How’d that happen?” Jimmy asked. “How’d that ax git in there? Is it some kinda trick?”

  His uncle scratched his head. He was trying to figure out how to explain something complicated to somebody with limited English.

  “A cyclone done that,” Aunt Orlena said. “A twister. You know what I mean?” She spun her finger in a circle.

  “Uh-huh,” Jimmy said.

  “Well, that old twister just picked up that there ax,” she said, “and stuck it in that there anvil clean as a whistle. It was some kinda miracle. The kind of miracles that often turns up in cyclones. I heard tell of a hoe handle got stuck plum through a tree trunk. And another time a piece a straw—”

  “Mama,” Uncle Isaac said, “you’re wanderin’ off the subject.”

  “I just thought he’d be interested in all them there miracles,” Aunt Orlena said. “Gawd works in mysterious ways.”

  “Anyhow,” interrupted Uncle Isaac, “that there ax got stuck in the anvil durin’ a twister way back. I don’t recall just when. Anyhow nowadays it travels ’round the countryside, and bigguns try an’ pull it out. But the most they ever do is bust the handle.”

  “Oh,” said Jimmy.

  He could see the skinny man with the apron replacing the splintered handle with a new one, pushing and hammering.

  “How come they wanta pull it out?” Jimmy asked. “Won’t that kinda ruin the whole thing. I mean there’s lots a axes. And there’s lots a anvils. But there’s only about mebbe one anvil with an ax stuck in it. Only about one in the whole world. So why bust ’em up? I don’t git it.”

  Uncle Isaac scratched his head and took a deep breath. Answering all these questions was turning into work.

  “It’s vainglory,” said Aunt Orlena. “All vainglory. They just wanna show how big and strong they think they are. They don’t care about miracles.”

  “That and the thousand dollars,” said Uncle Isaac.

  “What thousand dollars?” asked Jimmy.

  “The thousand you git if’n you pull the ax out,” said his uncle.

  Jimmy took a moment to do some figuring. He hadn’t learned much math yet in the one-room schoolhouse, but he was pretty sure this proposition was mathematically unsound.

  “I still don’t git it,” he said. “That guy ain’t never gonna take in enough nickels to make a thousand dollars. Where’s he gonna git the prize money at?”

  “He don’t need no prize money,” Uncle Isaac explained, “because nobody ain’t never gonna pull that damn ax outa that goddamn anvil.”

  “Don’t blaspheme,” said Aunt Orlena. “Besides, them nickels add up.”

  When a new handle was firmly in place, Goliath paid another nickel and stepped up to the anvil again. He spit on his huge hands and rubbed them together. Then he grasped the handle and pulled up with all his might. His back bowed as if he had hooked a whale and was having trouble landing it. His eyes bugged out. His veins were thick vines climbing up his bare arms and across his face. This time the wooden handle remained whole, but something broke inside Goliath. He let go the single-bladed ax and grabbed his stomach. He was in so much pain he couldn’t even stand up straight. Jimmy turned away from the suffering. He had seen enough hurting in his life, too much, and was anxious to move on.

  “Let’s—” he began.

  But then he realized Aunt Orlena and Uncle Isaac were no longer behind him. He had been so engrossed in the giant’s struggle to rob the anvil of its ax that he hadn’t noticed them go. The boy was on his own at the fair.

  Not knowing which way to turn, Jimmy sniffed the air searching for an aroma worth pursuing. He smelled cow manure to the west, pig shit to the south, horse droppings to the east, and sugar to the north. Following the sweet scent, Jimmy approached a tent that looked like all the others but smelled like a house in a fairy tale.

  Peeking into the gingerbread tent, Jimmy saw not only fragrant ginger loaves but also pies and cakes and cookies on parade. Walking down a procession of pies, Jimmy noticed a blue ribbon beside one of them (apple) and a red ribbon brightening another (lemon meringue) and a white ribbon decorating a third (mince). Moving on, he reviewed whole brigades of cookies, some wearing more red, white, and blue bunting. Unable to resist, Jimmy bent down so his nose almost touched a plate of brownies and sniffed loudly. When he saw people scowling at him, he turned away self-consciously and hurried out of the fairy-tale tent.

  Hearing shouts and laughter, Jimmy glanced back in the direction of the miraculous anvil. Another giant was attempting to separate what had been joined together by the cyclone, or the god of cyclones, or the Great Mystery, or maybe even Aunt Orlena’s grumpy Jehovah. Who could say? The ax and the anvil were obviously great crowd-pleasers. Jimmy considered paying his nickel and taking a turn, but five cents was a lot of money. Besides, if fully grown giants couldn’t budge the ax, what chance had a tall but skinny boy who had just turned eighteen? He decided to be smart and save his one and only nickel and spare his back.

  Continuing to explore, Jimmy entered a large tent on the west side of the circle and saw a herd of cattle. He was surprised because the Human Beings never allowed animals inside their tepees. This race of “Writers” continued to puzzle him.

  Jimmy admired the biggest, fattest, handsomest bulls he had ever seen in his life. They were wonderful to look at but horrible to smell. The tent locked in and intensified the odor of dung. He could hardly bear to breathe, but nobody else seemed to notice anything unusual or unpleasant. Making a hurried tour of the cattle tent, he saw more blue, red, and white ribbons. Curiously examining a blue one, he discovered that it had writing on it: FIRST PLACE. A red ribbon proclaimed: SECOND PLACE. And a white one said: THIRD PLACE. So Jimmy finally worked out that he was observing some sort of contest. Writers were so competitive. Unable to stand the stink any longer—cattle dung smelled much worse than buffalo chips—Jimmy made his way back out into the open air.

  When he heard yells and laughter, Jimmy knew where to look for the source. He soon found himself heading back in the direction of the anvil and the ax. He hated the thought of parting with his newly acquired nickel fortune, but he was nonetheless drawn to the blade in the block of iron. He realized he wasn’t as strong as the big farmers who had failed one after the other, but he had begun to wonder if maybe the giants weren’t relying too much on brute force. He had begun to hope there might be another way to coax the ax from the anvil.

  When he reached the center of the circle, Jimmy found a crowd of big old farm boys daring each other to try their luck. He walked up to the skinny man in the apron and took out his nickel, but the seller of chances didn’t notice him. He wasn’t being rude. He just had no idea that such a beanstalk would attempt to outpull giants.

  “Excuse me, mister,” Jimmy said, “I’d like to give it a try.”

  The seller of chances was caught off guard and laughed before he could stop himself. His laughter proved contagious. Soon all the big men and strapping boys were laughing, too. The merriment grew and grew as the news spread outward from the center of the crowd. Jimmy overheard them telling each other that the half-wit didn’t know any better . . . that he had a weak mind and weaker back . . . that he had gone savage and thought he was better than white folks . . . that the white savage was gonna fall on his damn ass and they were all gonna enjoy it. He saw them pointing as if he were some animal on display. Now he wished he had never seen that anvil, that he had never coveted that ax, that he had never come to the fair. He wanted to run, but he didn’t want to give them the satisfaction.

  “Here’s my nickel,” said Jimmy, handing over his riches with a wince. “Git outa the way.”

  “Okay, Chief,” the apron man said. “Go to it.”

  Hearing the laughter and the jeers, Jimmy stepped up to the anvil, dropped to his knees out of respect, and then addressed the mass of iron in the Human tongue.

  “Excuse me, O Great Anvil,” he began, speaking the way the Sun Chief had taught him to speak. “I’ve go
t something to say to you. Uh. Something important. Uh. I have great respect for your strength. Uh. I hope you also have respect for my weakness. I couldn’t possibly take your ax away from you, so I won’t try, but I hope you will give it to me willingly. You see, I need it a lot worse than you do. I need your ax so people will stop laughing at me . . .”

  Meanwhile, the crowd continued to laugh and mock. “Look, he’s prayin’ to it!” “He looks like he wants to hump it!” “He’s makin’ love to it!” On and on . . .

  “I need your ax so they will respect me,” Jimmy droned on. “I could also use the thousand dollars. Let’s be honest. O Anvil, Great Anvil, Mighty Brother, please release your grip of steel. I will take good care of your ax. I will oil it and sharpen it. I will keep it with me always. So what do you say?”

  Jimmy got up off his knees, rose to his feet, placed his hands on the wooden handle, and pulled gently as if helping up a girl who had fallen down. Realizing full well that he couldn’t overpower the ax or the anvil, he didn’t try. He didn’t strain. He was tender to the ax, kind to the anvil. He thought he felt a slight relaxing of the metal grip, but he wasn’t sure.

  “You will never leave my side,” Jimmy said in the Human tongue. “You will be my constant companion. If you help me, I will help you. You will no longer be a spectacle. You will no longer be pawed by strangers. My home will be your home. What do you say?”

  He pulled a little harder, but it didn’t feel right, so he tugged even more gently. He imagined that he had asked a young girl to dance, and she said yes for a change, and so he took her by the hand and was leading her to the dance floor.

  “Come with me,” he said softly to the iron. “Come dance with me.”

  Jimmy felt the anvil loosening its iron grip, felt the ax surrendering itself to him. He wanted to hurry, but he told himself to be patient. Slowly, easy now, gently. He gave the slightest tug and drew the ax from the anvil.

  The crowd swallowed its mean laughter and seemed to choke on it. It couldn’t get its breath. It gasped. Jimmy smiled and raised the ax high over his head. The crowd fell utterly quiet and everybody started backing up to give him room. Somebody at the back of the crowd cheered. Then other voices took up the hurrah. The cheering was as contagious as the laughter had been. The cheers became a mighty yell.

  Horses whinnied. Roosters crowed. Bulls snorted and kicked up red dirt. A donkey brayed. A red-tailed hawk screamed high overhead. Mice squeaked, grasshoppers leapt high in the air, spiders stopped their weaving and looked around. Prairie dogs came up out of their burrows to see what had disturbed the universe. A turtle hurried. A baby cried in its mother’s arms. An old diamondback rattled its tail. A single drop of rain fell out of the pale blue sky and hit Jimmy right between his good eye and his bad one.

  Blinking, Jimmy stared up at the ax in his hand, at the sky, at the sun. He let out a scream that began as a war cry but ended in laughter. He shook his new weapon at the heavens, and bees buzzed loud about his head.

  They started coming early the next morning. The first one, the town blacksmith, was waiting in the yard when Jimmy emerged from the house to do the milking. The smith approached the boy—who carried a pail in one hand, his new ax in the other—and said: “Mawnin’, Jimmy. If’n you’re willin’, I’d sure be proud to go see that there red canyon.”

  By the time Jimmy had finished his milking, two others, big farm brothers, had joined the blacksmith. They too wanted to see the biggest canyon in the world. He hurried inside, a timid leader of men.

  While he was eating breakfast in the kitchen, Jimmy watched the yard fill up with men of all sizes and ages. They talked among themselves and waited patiently. They were in a good humor, smiling and laughing. Jimmy was already beginning to think of them as his men.

  Still shy, still hesitant, Jimmy finally worked up the courage to venture outside. His new volunteers crowded around him. He was puzzled, intimidated, even frightened by what he saw written on their faces. They saw him as a leader while he saw himself as a follower. But that would have to change because he couldn’t disappoint these faces. He had to pretend that he was the man—the leader—he saw reflected in their believing eyes. He desperately wanted to be the man they saw, but how did you become a leader?

  He thought about the shaman. Should he take off all his clothes and paint himself yellow? That would certainly get their attention, but it might just compromise his dignity. Did you need dignity to lead? Maybe he should ask the tallest tree he could find. Or the fastest horse. Or the meanest bull. Or try to talk an eagle out of the sky. Hey, come on down here and give me some good advice. Or maybe, like Moses, he should just strike up a conversation with a lowly bush.

  Should he change his walk? Could he deepen his voice? What about his posture? Certainly that could be improved. Head up, shoulders back, gaze on the horizon? He tried it but soon slumped again. Should he speak faster or slower? Louder or softer? Should he say more or say less?

  How had Sam Houston done it? How had Lincoln? Or Robert E. Lee? Or Jesse James? What was their secret? And was it always the same secret? Were there as many secrets as there were leaders?

  What was he going to do? Or not do? How was he going to make sure he didn’t disappoint people? Didn’t let anybody down?

  At long last, he more or less persuaded himself—although he still harbored doubts—that he did have one advantage: He knew where he wanted to go and what he wanted to do when he got there. He was fortunate to have a dream.

  3

  On a fine April morning, Jimmy Goodnight and his outfit perched on the rim of the canyon that stretched beneath them as deep and measureless as time. He felt his good eye trying to stretch itself to take in such a vast and gorgeous panorama. He had begun to worry that he had lost his ability to see beauty, but now he was blind to it no more. He had gotten his eye back.

  Turning his attention from the canyon to his men—Coffee, Too Short, Simon, Black Dub, Tin Soldier, and Suckerod—the boss watched their faces as they stared down into the abyss. He hoped he had chosen his cowboys wisely. Three times as many had wanted to come, but he had limited the size of his crew to the bare minimum he felt he couldn’t do without. On the brink of the abyss, the boys’ wisecracking and ribbing had suddenly stopped. The outbursts of laughter had died away. Jimmy Goodnight thought his bunch looked almost reverent. They were behaving as if they had ridden into the biggest church in the world rather than to the edge of the biggest canyon on earth. Well, anyway the biggest one Jimmy had ever seen or heard tell of in Texas. The sight of the canyon confirmed his prophecy and him as the prophet. He had not parted the Red Sea but rather the red earth itself. Now his men were once again looking at him with that look: the look that said they trusted him. The look that made him all the more determined not to let them down. He had to live up to their look, and he had to live up to the canyon. He couldn’t disappoint any of them.

  “Take a good look,” Jimmy Goodnight shouted. “Ain’t this the purdiest sight”—he reveled in the superlative—“you ever seen in your life?”

  But his boys had been struck dumb by the void before them and didn’t answer. They looked so solemn, they were funny. He wondered if they were more reverent or more afraid? They stood perched on the rim of the known world. They had come to the boundary that separated the everyday from the extraordinary. They were acting as if they had reached the edge of the earth and were worried they were going to fall off.

  Then the cook did go over the edge: the four mules that pulled his chuck wagon spooked, stampeded, and charged right out into the void. Poor Bob Wanger, better known as Coffee, started screaming, which didn’t help to calm down the mules any. The pots and pans in the chuck wagon were banging and clanging away, sounding like a blacksmith gone insane, which didn’t help the mules’ nerves any either. Jimmy Goodnight started laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe. Poor Coffee was speaking some primeval language that didn’t have any words in it but expressed fear eloquently.

  “Let ’em r
un!” Jimmy Goodnight yelled when he got his breath. “You never seen a purdier place for a drive!”

  Coffee tried to curse, but he was too scared for the words to come out right. Jimmy thought: He’s screaming so loud he’s liable to hurt hisself, and I’m laughing so hard I’m gonna hurt myself. He wondered who would get hurt first. It seemed like some kind of race.

  Jimmy Goodnight laughed even harder when the bedrolls started bouncing out. This chuck wagon was just a regular wagon with a kitchen cabinet built on the back of it. Pots and pans and coffee and beans and flour rode in the cabinet. And all the cowboys’ bedrolls traveled in the bed of the wagon. But now the wagon was bouncing so high and so hard that everything that could get out did get out. The cowboys were so pleased to be revenged on Coffee—who somehow made red beans taste like coffee and coffee taste like red beans—that they didn’t even mind seeing their bedding scattered all over the side of the canyon. The freed bedrolls were racing each other down the steep inclines, hopping, jumping, having a good old time.

  Then the chuck wagon door, the cabinet door, banged open, spilling out the coffee pot and the bean pot and pans and metal plates and tin cups. The plates raced the bedrolls to see who could get to the bottom of the canyon first.

  Jimmy Goodnight didn’t think he could howl any harder, but then he did. All the cowboys were laughing except Coffee—until they saw a big bag of coffee bounce out of the back of the chuck wagon. The cloth bag burst open and scattered coffee across the canyon cliffs. Then a bag of flour followed, exploded on impact, and left a white scar on the red face of the canyon wall. Now that was carrying the joke too far.

  The mules seemed to agree, for they tried to call a halt to their reckless race down the cliff. They put on the brakes so fast that the chuck wagon almost ran over them. Their hooves skidded on the loose canyon scree. But eventually the wagon did start slowing down.